


Over

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23899711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir tries too hard.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Lindir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 243





	Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindirsweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindirsweetheart/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Lindirsweetheart’s “Lindir made a mistake(whatever mistake you like but I do prefer one that Lindir hurt himself)which made Elrond extremely mad at him.So as a punishment,Elrond dragged him into his own chambers and made love to him until Lindir faint(more points to Lindir 's little cryings and beggings),when Lindir woke up again,he found his lord cleaning his body ,making soothing words and kissing him” request on [my Dreamwidth](https://yeaka.dreamwidth.org/1190.html).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Everyone in Imladris is stressed, but no one more so than Lord Elrond, or perhaps even Lindir, since he tries so very had to take on as much as he can of his lord’s burdens. Their home is filled to bursting, and more of their guests are difficult than not—dwarves are always so _obscenely_ dirty, and they make up the bulk of the visitors. They’re holding some sort of trade fair nearby, from what Lindir understands, and even Men and elves have come to see it, and it seems all would rather stay in Elrond’s plush beds than in tents out in the fields. It pushes Lindir to the very brink of his sanity, trying to fit everyone in, trying to feed them all, trying to keep their beautiful land from being trampled. He’s halfway through another hastily scrawled food order when he thinks to suggest, “Perhaps we should empty the eastern wing and convert at least the crafting and musical stations into guest rooms.”

A heavy sigh snakes out of Elrond’s body. Lindir glances up, across their crowded office, and sees Elrond’s shoulders slumped and thick lines beneath his eyes. He’s clearly as tired as Lindir, but there is no time for rest, even though the sun has set. The pleasant, lilting tune of familiar minstrels that usually permeates the air has died, instead replaced with the raucous conversation of too many different people. They’ve closed the windows, and still the chatter thrums through the glass. Elrond shakes his head. “A clever thought, my Lindir, but I simply do not have the resources to divert to that.”

“I can do it,” Lindir offers. “The largest room could bed at least six people, and though it is cluttered now with many discarded things, I should be able to clear it on my own.” He knows perfectly well what kind of things are there—heavy furniture and old ironwork and other such things far too heavy for him, but he could at least _try_.

But Elrond tells him, “No. It is too much for you.” And Lindir would argue, except he never argues _with Elrond_ , and besides, his headache is growing worse. There’s no sense wasting time; they should both finish their work and head to bed. Perhaps if they’re lucky, they’ll manage an hour or two before Erestor wakes them to right more wrongs. 

Lindir humbly nods and returns to his scroll.

* * *

The guests are tripping over each other. _Lindir’s_ tripping over them. Dwarves are so infernally _short_ , and sometimes Lindir doesn’t even see them coming until it’s too late. He can see that it’s getting to his lord, which is shocking and appalling: Lindir’s quite sure that Elrond is the most patient creature in all of Middle Earth. The dwarves are testing that. Eight dwarves have taken refuge in the dining hall, sleeping in rumpled bags right on the floor, and as much as Lindir would prefer to simply banish them from the kingdom, he knows he must find rooms for them. They must go _somewhere_. Lord Elrond is infinitely hospitable. 

Lindir passes the east wing on the way to the kitchens and casts a sidelong glance at the window of its largest room: he can see from there the many things precariously piled right up to the ceiling. The room is little more than storage. Perhaps they could fit some of those things in the stables or even in the gardens and get the dwarves out from underfoot. He feels guilty for even thinking of it—he was told not to.

* * *

But Lindir is even more loving than he is obedient, and he eventually finds himself elbow-deep in soot and old wood. He has no time to spare but throws himself headlong into sorting anyway. He carries as much as he can out into the hall, practically having to scale shelves and desks in his attempt to manage the very top of the load. 

He reaches for a three-legged stool atop a bookcase, only for the shelf his left foot is on to break. Lindir cries out as he topples backwards to the floor. His ankle twists in the corner of the shelf, his knee smacking the hard tile at a sickening angle. Dazed, Lindir lies next to the heap of trash, leg throbbing. Then he lets out a groan of pain. Elrond was right. It’s too much for him.

Like summoned by his thoughts, Elrond appears above him. Elrond frowns down at him, and Lindir whimpers both in agony and shame. Slowly, Elrond kneels down. His hands drift to Lindir’s leg, and he draws the fabric of Lindir’s robe back enough to see the damage. Lindir can’t bring himself to look. He’s sure he’s given himself quite a nasty bruise, but if he’d managed to help their situation, it would have been worth it. 

Elrond’s slender fingers curve along Lindir’s tender flesh. Lindir’s breath hitches. Those talented fingers dig in, kneading him in just the right places, lightly tilting his ankle back to where it should be and massaging out the soreness. In no time at all, Lindir feels perfectly fine. 

Physically, at least. Mentally, he’s quite embarrassed. He manages to sit up but doesn’t dare get any higher. Hanging his head low enough for his hair to brush the floor, he murmurs, “I am sorry.”

“You disobeyed me,” Elrond answers, stern and level. Lindir cringes. 

“I apologize. It is no excuse, but I... I only hoped to help you...” It was still wrong. He knows that. He wants to slip through a crack in the floor. 

Elrond’s hand appears before him. Lindir hesitates, then takes it. The wondrous caress of Elrond’s fingers between his own only makes him feel guiltier. He isn’t worthy of that touch. But he can’t defy Elrond again, so he lets his lord gently tug him up to his feet. Then Elrond takes off, dragging Lindir with him, and Lindir doesn’t even think to protest.

* * *

He’s brought to Elrond’s quarters and pushed past the threshold, though he tries to hang back—he’s unworthy of that too. Elrond turns to close the door—the click of the latch rings in Lindir’s ears. He can still hear the steady hum of talk over the balcony, but Elrond’s quarters are high enough that Lindir can’t make out individual conversations. It’s no distraction. He stares at Elrond and only Elrond, because Elrond is the most important thing in Lindir’s whole world. 

“I have felt stressed of late,” Elrond admits as he turns from the door. He looks at Lindir and adds, “Yet not nearly so much as my lovely assistant.”

Lindir hangs his head. That isn’t true; it isn’t _his_ home, not truly his hospitality—he’s merely worse at hiding his emotions. He has much less control of them. It’s clear to everyone when he’s breaking, and he breaks easily.

Elrond stalks towards him, until they’re toe to toe, and Lindir can smell the lavender from Elrond’s morning bath. The proximity overwhelms his senses and makes him temporarily forget why he’s so upset. Elrond is ridiculously handsome up close. Easy to concentrate on. Elrond’s hand lifts to Lindir’s cheek, softly brushing back into his dark hair. Lindir’s pulse races. 

“You run yourself ragged,” Elrond scolds, “Even thought I tell you not to. What more must I say for you to listen?”

Lindir winces. He murmurs, “I am sorry,” and means it. Elrond takes a step that actually forces Lindir to back up, because there’s no room left between them. Another corners Lindir against the bed—he can feel the mattress digging into the backs of his thighs. 

Elrond asks, low and powerful, “Do you still not understand how _precious_ you are to me?”

Lindir can hardly breathe. His eyes are wide and maybe watery. Elrond gets to him _so easily._ He licks his lips and weakly retorts, “I would gladly sacrifice myself for your peace and pleasure.” In a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even think on it. Elrond frowns. 

“My sweet songbird, you _are_ my peace and pleasure. And I cannot stand to see you hurt any more than you already are.”

Lindir tries to protest. He opens his mouth. But Elrond leans in then and presses tightly up against him, hand drawing him in and holding there, as though Lindir would ever dare shy away from a kiss. He opens instantly, eagerly for Elrond’s tongue, and he practically purrs as it slides into his mouth. He doesn’t deserve it, but he _wants it_ : Elrond’s affection always silences everything else. 

Elrond leans into him so hard that Lindir buckles back. His legs lift, parting around Elrond’s hips, and his torso falls to the mattress, minutely bouncing off the lavish duvet. Elrond descends over him like a hungry predator that Lindir automatically surrenders to. 

Elrond stops kissing him long enough to ask, to nearly _growl_ , “What must I do to make you understand?”

Lindir can only murmur, “Sorry.”

* * *

He is sorry. He’s _so_ sorry. But he wouldn’t change a thing. He’d do it all again, except maybe climb higher, fall further, hurt himself worse so that this would be worse, rougher, somehow even _deeper_ , because it feels so _good_ and Lindir’s desperate for more. He loves the way his lord slides into his body, adores the way that Elrond bears over him and smothers him in kisses. Elrond’s hands run everywhere, cupping, squeezing, rubbing, _worshiping_ every part of Lindir’s trembling body. He’s already covered in sweat, already shaking. The tremors began the second Elrond started gently fingering him open. It wasn’t even so much the feeling of _Elrond inside him_ as the sweet words Elrond whispered across his stomach and the butterfly kisses that swept across his skin. Now Elrond’s fully sheathed, filling Lindir up, and Lindir squeezes tight around it just to revel in that burn. 

Elrond’s thumb presses against Lindir’s chin, forcing his jaw open, and Lindir’s mouth is taken over by Elrond’s delicious tongue. Lindir leans into the kiss and moans every time he’s sucked at. Elrond rocks into him again and again in full, long, languid thrusts that keep pushing Lindir so close to that edge. His arms are locked around Elrond’s back, hands scrambling at Elrond’s hair. He usually tries not to rumple that, but at the moment, he’s lost the wherewithal to do this _neatly_. He’s just barely managing to breathe. Elrond hums a new line of praise right into Lindir’s mouth, and Lindir’s too fucked-raw to make out the words but does catch the tone and sentiment. It makes him glow. He loves his lord _so much_. 

A part of him wonders if that’s all this is: a burst of exquisite _love_ : like one of Mithrandir’s fireworks. If they’ve both been pushed too hard and _need_ release. Another part of him thinks that maybe that’s it: Elrond is so tightly wound that he needs to unwind, to take that frustration out on something, and Lindir’s pliant body is the perfect subject. In a way, he hopes so. All Lindir wants in life is to be of use to Elrond. 

Elrond rasps, “So beautiful, my songbird,” and hits that perfect spot that makes Lindir’s vision blur all white. He arches off the bed and cries out as he comes, splattering both their stomachs and probably leaking down onto the sheets. Elrond just keeps going, which is what Lindir wants: _Elrond, Elrond, Elrond._

* * *

On the second round, he’s dazed and giddy. On the third, he’s near unconscious. Elrond begins a fourth time, and Lindir’s throat is too hoarse from crying and begging to do much more than brokenly moan. His body feels bruised in the absolute best of ways: he’s aching all over and can’t stop shaking. He can’t willfully squirm or writhe, but his body trembles all on its own. His thighs are a wreck. His hole is gaping open and leaking everywhere, his channel plain rubbed raw. He still loves it. Elrond’s still covering him in kisses and fond squeezes and even a few nips that make Lindir whine. He thinks Elrond asks at one point: _is this what you wanted?_ And Lindir feverishly nods, because this is everything he ever wanted. He’s forgotten all about the dwarves. The world’s narrowed down to just this one room, just this one bed, just _Elrond_ on top of him. Lindir could die of happiness. 

Lindir can’t hold on. He feels his lord come inside him again and wants to clench around him but can’t. There’s no strength left. Lindir’s eyes can’t stay open. 

Elrond nuzzles at him and whispers three words that shatter Lindir into nothing. He passes out in his lord’s arms.

* * *

When he comes to, he’s boneless. He’s never felt heavier. He’s so sticky with sweat, spit, and cum that all the sheets are glued to him. _Elrond’s_ sheets. He knows immediately that he’s in Elrond’s room, because he can smell Elrond nearby and feels too good to be on his own. He’s aching, but wonderfully. 

Something cold and wet presses into his hip, and Lindir shivers, forcing his eyes all the way open. Elrond’s sitting next to him, dressed in a loose white robe, dragging a damp cloth down his inner thigh. Lindir shivers and tries to speak but can’t. He’s ruined his throat. 

Elrond quietly asks, “Do you understand now, Lindir?”

Even smiling hurts, but Lindir does it. He’ll never understand it, but he does know it. The evidence is all over his body. 

Elrond reaches Lindir’s knee and switches to the other leg. “I admit, I had another motive. Hopefully now that I have thoroughly worn you out, you will be too exhausted to return to duty. I expect you to take the rest you deserve.”

Lindir muffles a groan against the pillow. The last thing he wants is time off—he needs to be _useful_. He needs to be by his lord’s side.

But he doubts he’ll be able to walk for at least a few hours. Elrond smiles thinly. He’s every bit as wise as Lindir always knew he was, although perhaps a tad more devious. 

He bends down to brush a kiss over Lindir’s cheek, then hooks a finger under Lindir’s chin and turns Lindir for a proper kiss. Lindir doesn’t have the energy to return it but does happily accept it. Elrond pulls back afterwards to order, “ _Rest_ ”

Lindir shuts his eyes and, this time, obeys.


End file.
